


are you the definition of insanity (or am I?)

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: upon this good earth [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, communication is a thing, i guess, just so everyone could sort their shit out, l well actually, more like canon typical gore, not violence, this one was literally written, why do my baby boys not have a tag?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: In which some hatchets get burriedOrIn which various elf-lords remember they have the ability to talk for a reason...
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: upon this good earth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934404
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	1. (where to we begin) the rubble or our sins?

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately following what's in a name? (that which we call a rose)
> 
> Fic Title from Break My Heart Again buy FINNEAS, chapter title from Pompeii by Bastille.

Thranduil is relatively certain he’s supposed to be able to tell the entire world to fuck off and leave him alone for a few days, to a few weeks, to a few months now, because he’s gone off and gotten married. He’s sure that’s a thing that humans do, and he married a human, therefore, according to their customs, he and Bard should be on their ‘honeymoon’. He’s still not sure what the moon has to do with marriage, though he’s pretty sure he can figure out how the honey comes into things… anyway, isn’t he supposed to be throwing all of his duties in someone else’s lap so he can go enjoy post-marital bliss?

 _Apparently not,_ since he finds himself being ambushed by his son the moment Bard’s ~~abandoned him~~ left to go and check on his children… their children? In any case, the moment his husband is out of earshot, his son appears and Thranduil resigns himself to the first of many conversations he doesn’t want to have and had actually planned on never having. Still, he holds in a sigh and sits himself down at the table, indicating for Legolas to do the same.

Legolas doesn’t speak for the longest time, Thranduil would normally take solace in the silence, some moments of peace in the never-ending mess of the constant work that has become his life since Amon Lanc fell. Truthfully, since even before that; the day he lost his own father. Normally, the silence is something he revels in, today, however, when this is just the first of many unwanted conversations, he just wants it to be done.

“Speak, Legolas, I do not have time for our usual routines.” Thranduil finally commands, watching as his son shifts uncomfortably in the seat.

“You remarried.” Legolas finally says something in his face lets Thranduil know that this isn’t what his son wants to discuss with him. Legolas has been raised within the Silvan culture; he knows very well that there is nothing but Thranduil’s grief that has held him back from pursuing relationships in the past.

“I did.” Thranduil agrees, remembering what he’d said to Bard this morning, regarding the marriage and the fact neither of them had discussed any of their relationship with their children. Although Methloth and Methestel had already told him they approved of his chosen lover, but his twins had always been more perceptive. “You don’t have to like him, but you will have to respect him. He is my husband and he _will_ be the King of Dale.”

“I have no issue with Bard, I am simply… surprised.” Legolas admits, fidgeting the way he always does when he’s not certain how Thranduil will respond to the subject of their conversation. “If you love him, why were you going to retreat?”

“I will not sacrifice the lives of our people for the love of one man, Legolas.” Thranduil replies, shaking his head, he knows the expression on his face is full of disappointment, but he cannot help that, given how intensely he feels it. He has tried everything to get Legolas to understand that a leader cannot simply do whatever they wish, cannot simply throw the lives of their people away for whatever crusade they’ve decided is worthy. Legolas has never understood the lesson he’s tried to teach. “It is advantageous to us that Erebor _and_ Dale be able to rebuild, so we can have more trading partners again, and so there are allies nearby should we be attacked from more than just Dol Guldur. However, there is a balance that has to be determined; there is value in every single life, and I must consider the risk of lives lost against any potential gain.”

“But the humans in Dale would have been slaughtered.” Legolas argues, Thranduil sighs and doesn’t pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation and exhaustion. He hasn’t taken the time to make himself a tea for the pain of his wound yet and the ache just adds to his desire to write the entire day off and crawl back into bed with his husband.

“The people of Dale were not my people.” Thranduil tells him, he doesn’t realize he’s rubbing his fingers over his wound site until he notes Legolas’s eyes watching the movement and he forces himself to stop. He’s far too out of sorts for the duties that lie before him today, but there’s no helping it, not unless he wants to go and make Bard, Galion, _and_ Elrond furious at him by deliberately reopening and exacerbating his injury. He realizes he’s touching the injury again and entwines his hands in his lap, deciding he’ll probably have to sit on them next if that doesn’t help. “Dale and Greenwood had no official agreements. The agreement with Lake Town did not pertain to refugee aid, though we provided it anyway. Erebor and Greenwood had official agreements but, for the most part, they were broken by the dwarves before the dragon arrived, and what agreements weren’t broken by then were broken with Erebor’s loss.”

“It’s different now?”

“Only in that the People of Dale are now mine to defend, given their future King is my husband, but it would be foolish to assume that means I could throw _our_ people’s lives away in defense of the people of Dale. They are both _my_ people, but we are not _one_ people.” Thranduil explains, sees that Legolas still doesn’t understand it and sighs again, shaking his head. “We can discuss this later, Legolas, tell me what you’re really wanting to discuss.” He demands, his patience wearing thin.

“The burn injury!” Legolas exclaims, appearing to startle himself with it, Thranduil inhales deeply and indicates for Legolas to continue speaking. “It-it’s not new, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“When did you-?” Legolas trails off, Thranduil briefly entertains the idea of not answering, of making Legolas actually voice the question in full, but he decides that’s cruel and unnecessary and so discards it entirely. Sometimes, Legolas makes him feel like pulling his hair out, but he loves him, will always love him, even if he knows he struggles with letting Legolas know that.

“The dragon that killed your mother did not go down without a fight.” Thranduil admits, smiling sadly when Legolas recoils with a horrified exclamation. “It tried its very best to take me down with it and came very close to succeeding.” He’s not sure why the words are so easy for him to say. He’s never been able to speak of the injury with anyone but Galion and the healers who treated him. Well, he supposes Bard is one of the people he’s discussed such with as well but talking to Bard is somehow so much easier than Thranduil is sure it should be. “The ‘burn injury’, as you put it, is just a scar that will never heal. The healers managed to save my eye and restore me full functionality of my limbs, but the injury was never one that would ever heal fully.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Legolas asks, his eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed, the expression on his face is so very reminiscent of his mother. Thranduil wonders sometimes if Legolas understands just how much he looks like his mother, even as people never stop saying how much Legolas looks like him.

“The months I was in recovery, you were busy in the forest, fighting,” Thranduil answers, shaking his head. “I was not dying, so there was no reason to call you back.” He says, not acknowledging the truth they both know, that those months that followed the loss of Lindariel, Legolas had done everything in his power to be wherever Thranduil was not. At the time, it had served Thranduil to have his son elsewhere, not constantly fussing at him the way Galion, the healers, and his twins had. It had been a relief to him that Legolas had found something to occupy him while Thranduil couldn’t dedicate time to him, while they were both grieving. Truthfully, though, Thranduil hadn’t had much time for grieving then, too busy trying not to succumb to the fire and all that he thought it had stolen from him, besides his beloved.

“I would-I would have come back.” Legolas tells him, his voice full of conviction that is not reflected in his eyes, still, Thranduil thinks Legolas might believe the words, even if Thranduil doubts them. His relationship with his son has never been easy, even before Lindariel’s loss there was a distance between them, one that had never existed between Thranduil and his own father. Sometimes, Thranduil wonders what his father would do in his place, how he would have responded to Thranduil if he’d acted the way Legolas sometimes does. Thranduil knows that the situations are different, nothing about his childhood resembles Legolas’.

Thranduil was one of any number of elflings in Menegroth and, more specifically, he was one of three royal elflings. He, Lúthien, and Nimloth had been inseparable from the cradle, and when they’d met Galion, he’d just fit right in, as if he’d always been made to be there. Legolas was born among the last group of elflings just before Amon Lanc fell, after which it was lucky for any elflings to be born at all, let alone groups of them. Until Tauriel arrived, Legolas had been the youngest of all of the elves in Greenwood, and given Lindariel’s stubborn belief that Legolas would be their only child, he’d been coddled and protected as much as they could manage. Friends Legolas’ own age were hard to find and that’s true even to this day.

He knows what happens when one coddles their children to excess, Lúthien had been the perfect example of that. His uncle had tried to control her, to confine her, to coddle her, and as result, they all lost her. He and Lindariel coddled Legolas, confined him, controlled his every interaction until he was old enough to make his own decisions and then they’d tried to curtail those too, and the harder they’d tried, the harder Legolas had fought against them. Of course, in the wake of his mother’s death, Legolas transferred all of his anger to Thranduil and put Lindariel on a pedestal. Thranduil knew all about that, too. In the wake of Oropher’s death, it had been far too easy to forget all the times they’d fought and disagreed, because now his father was gone, and it was rude to disparage the dead.

“We cannot change the past, Legolas.” Thranduil finally says, shifting in the chair and making a mental note to brew himself something for the pain before leaving. His tolereance is legendary, but today is not one of his good days, the burn of the dragonfire an unfathomable itch beneath his skin, where normally there be nothing but a pleasant numbness. “We can discuss this again later if you wish. But I have to join the ongoing negotiations.” He decides, even though he knows negotiations aren’t due to start for another hour at least.

“Of course, ada. I should probably check in with patrols, anyway. There was a disturbance in the southern part of the forest a few days before the battle.” Legolas answers, slowly pushing his chair away from the table and standing up. “We’re trying to confirm what it was.”

“Yes, I felt it. I think you’ll find that the White Council chose to meddle in something they should have left well enough alone, but we’ll see what the consequences are.” Thranduil says, wondering if he should have asked Bard about it, given that Bard and Kémya are tied into the Greenwood with him and that Kémya might have more understanding than he has. He supposes he could just ask Elrond, too, but that necessitates speaking with Elrond and he’s already dreading the need for that.

“I’ll keep you updated, ada.” Legolas promises, as he bows his head and turns to leave. “Also, does your new marriage mean I have little siblings?” Legolas queries, standing in front of the entrance, Thranduil considers the question and inclines his head.

“Bard and I haven’t discussed it exactly, but yes, I believe so.”

“Well, that’s going to be interesting.” Legolas comments, as he ducks out of the tent, Thranduil laughs and rolls his eyes before he sighs and goes to find Galion to beg hot water for a tea.


	2. (i knew i should have stayed) now you're moving on, I don't know what to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn and Thranduil talk, it doesn't go how Celeborn things it will...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Love Somebody by Kygo & One Republic.

Celeborn isn’t really sure how he gets through that day’s talks, given that he can’t stop thinking about last night. Thranduil remarrying isn’t exactly all that shocking, given Celeborn is Lord to the Silvan in Lothlórien and therefore knows their customs well. Add to that the fact that Thranduil had never struggled for attention when he wanted it, no that’s not the surprising thing. The scar that looked like it had almost claimed Thranduil’s nose and his eye, though, that was surprising and given the way Galion and the twins had recovered before Legolas, Elrond or himself, he assumes they were already aware of it.

That was another thing. The twins look like they could be Elrond’s siblings and he knows for certainty that they aren’t his grandsons. There is only one set of twins unaccounted for from the House of Thingol and Celeborn had all but given them up for dead long ago. Although, he does remember the set of twins Galion had suddenly shown up with after the second sacking of Menegroth, twins he’d claimed as his sons and who Thranduil doted upon like a favourite uncle.

Celeborn doesn’t remember when Thranduil had started to call the twins sons, he does remember that Oropher used to proudly tell stories of his grandsons, though. Those twins, though, had been light brown of hair, not dark and they’d had blue eyes, not grey. Still, Thranduil had always excelled at glamours, especially if that scar was anything to go off of. No, that wound wasn’t new at all, and he’s certain those twins have been his nephews the entire time. He should feel angry, that Thranduil has kept his nephews, his cousins from him for so long, but he’s just oddly… relieved. Relieved that someone, that _Thranduil_ had done what Celeborn hadn’t been able to do. That while Celeborn had managed to usher Elwing to safety from Menegroth, Thranduil had been able to do the same for the boys, where Celeborn had unknowingly left them for dead.

He wants to be angry at Thranduil for keeping whatever that scar is from him, too, but clearly Thranduil has become well versed in keeping secrets. And, Celeborn reluctantly admits that, as far as Thranduil is concerned, he is no longer someone to be trusted with Thranduil’s secrets. He never should have let this rift grow as big as it has grown, but he’d taken far too long to notice its existence in the first place. When he had finally noticed it had only been in the wake of Celebrían’s loss and he’d had far too much on his mind to concern himself with Thranduil when, as far as he had been concerned, Thranduil was being childish.

Yet, as has happened far too often, Thranduil had been the only one among them seeing things clearly. It was a skill Oropher had also possessed, which Celeborn supposes is part of the cause of the rift between them. If Oropher had told them that Sauron was not defeated, that the Darkness, that had claimed Amon Lanc and festered and spread throughout the southern part of the Greenwood, was Sauron, he would have believed it without question. If Oropher had warned them that they would regret Isildur’s action and Elrond’s inaction at Orodruin, they’ve have taken his words into consideration and made plans to contend with Sauron, but it hadn’t been Oropher warning them and they had not listened.

By the time, the dwarves are finally leaving, grumbling under their breath as they go, Celeborn has honestly no idea what he’s agreed to regarding their negotiations. He’d like to say that he trusts Thranduil not to let him put Lothlórien at a disadvantage, but that’s not Thranduil’s duty at all and it’s not like Thranduil knows what would be disadvantageous for Lórien, anyway. So, he can only hope that nothing discussed today had any actual impact for his people, since his wife will probably list the ways she could murder him if he has ruined them.

He watches Bard and Thranduil talk, their voices kept just low enough that Celeborn can’t hear them, but after a while, Bard kisses Thranduil, glares darkly and threateningly at Celeborn, before he breezes out of the ruined throne room. A man on a mission. Celeborn wishes he could find that strength, that confidence, but he just feels exhausted. He doesn’t know how they got here.

“I’m sorry.” Celeborn says, when he and Thranduil have been left in silence but for the rustling of the leaves on the stone floor as the wind blows through. Thranduil’s body tenses before slowly the elf-king pivots on his heels to look at Celeborn with a calculating gaze. Suddenly, Celeborn is reminded of Thingol and Oropher both, if only because of how different the reaction is from what either of them would have done.

Thingol had always been of the opinion that actions spoke far louder than words, Oropher had thought similarly. Thranduil had always preferred to determine if actions and words aligned. That’s not to say that Thranduil’s actions and his words always were perfectly synced, because they weren’t. But when Thranduil was the wronged party, he didn’t just look at the words someone said in defence of themselves, he looked at their actions, too, determined if the words that someone spoke were in line with the way they held their body, with the way they went about their business afterwards. Where Thingol and Oropher would ignore whatever was spoken, until actions backed up the words, Thranduil carefully archives the words spoken. He files them away so that later, he has something to throw back in your face if you prove yourself a liar or so he has something to lean back on and point to as evidence of your honesty.

“I know you won’t take me at my word, especially not after I refused to accept yours, but I’m sorry.” Celeborn says, remembering the look that had been on Thranduil’s face the day they’d all gathered at the Havens to watch Celebrían sale away. Thranduil would have been within his rights to say, ‘I told you so’, but he hadn’t. He’d said farewell to Celebrían with full sincerity, promised to keep an eye on her children if they came to Greenwood. Then, he’d stood with them, devastation written all over his face as Celebrían’s ship had sailed further and further away. When Celeborn had looked for him next, he’d already been gone. It was the only time Celeborn had seen him since Amon Lanc fell.

When Lindariel had been killed, the only one welcomed in Greenwood had been Celebrían and the children, the others warned to stay away. Now, with Celebrían gone, only the children were welcomed. Even now, Celeborn thinks Thranduil wouldn’t interact with him and Elrond if they weren’t outside of his realm. Thranduil was good at holding grudges, he wasn’t quite as spiteful about it as Lúthien and Nimloth used to be, but he could hold his own. Celeborn’s not sure why he ever thought this rift between them would resolve itself if he ignored it long enough. Thranduil had always had far more patience than anyone else Celeborn knew, he’s certain he inherited that from his mother, Kémihína, even though she would be little more than vague memory for Thranduil.

“Why are you here, Celeborn?” Thranduil asks, pulling Celeborn from his thoughts, Celeborn hesitates, aware as he is now that the vision he saw in Galadriel’s mirror was a vision of the past, not of the present, but the fear he’d felt had been very real. “I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to join negotiations you don’t care for and to give me an apology you know I will not accept.”

“There was a scene in Galadriel’s mirror.” Celeborn admits, remembers how horrified he’d been to see it, the sudden, crushing fear and guilt that had fallen on him when he’d believed that they’d set a dragon loose on Greenwood in not stopping the dwarves quest, in not attempting to. In all but endorsing it by not preventing Gandalf from going back to the dwarves. “There was a dragon, everything was burning and you-“ he stops talking abruptly, the words catching in his throat. He’s not sure he’ll even forget that scene in the mirror, Thranduil ablaze even as he’d writhed on the ground, mouth open in a silent scream, the flesh melting from his bones.

“-I was burning, too.” Thranduil states, his voice quiet, gentle, Celeborn nods, breathing in deeply as he tries to gather himself.

“Yes.” He agrees, his voice breaking as he clenches his hands in his lap, the fear may have faded but the guilt hasn’t, because Thranduil _had_ burnt and Celeborn hadn’t been there, hadn’t even _known_. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he pleads, looking across at Thranduil, whose face has been wiped of all expression, the elfling has only ever gotten better at that ability, never worse.

“What difference would telling you have made?” Thranduil asks, an elegant eyebrow raised in question, but not giving anything away. The question is a good one, Celeborn doesn’t know what difference there would have been, other than that he would have probably dropped everything to come and sit at Thranduil’s beside, but Thranduil had obviously not wanted him there, and so would such have only been a comfort to Celeborn and hindrance to Thranduil?

“I could have- I would have supported you.” Celeborn finally offers, sees an unfamiliar, unnameable emotion bloom in Thranduil’s eyes before it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Perhaps. We’ll never know. ” Thranduil admits, shaking his head. “There was no need for you to be told, so you were not told.” Thranduil continues, stepping back to the table and sinking down into the seat he’d claimed earlier that morning. “My healers and Galion made the decision to keep the wound as secret as possible. It was believed that my people couldn’t know how close they had come to losing both their king and their queen in one fell swoop. Legolas was not, and remains, unready to be king. Methloth and Methestel weren’t, and still aren’t, in the line of succession, at their own request, for all that I frequently leave the kingdom in their capable hands. I had no say in any of it until months later, when everything was already all said and done.”

“But surely your people knew something was wrong? You couldn’t have disappeared for months without them knowing.” Celeborn exclaims, in surprise, Thranduil hums.

“I had just lost my wife, my _queen.”_ Thranduil points out, a sad little smile on his face. “My people considered it a miracle that I didn’t leave them the way Melian left us when Thingol died. They were quite content to let me mourn ardently for _months_ , so long as, when my grieving period was over, I returned to being the king they’d come to rely on.” He says, before rolling his eyes. “And, if I was needed, Methloth and Methestel are quite good at pretending to be me.” He comments with fond exasperation that Celeborn is well familiar with from his experiences with his grandsons. He doesn’t know what it is about the twins of Thingol’s blood line, but they’re all menaces. Speaking of-

“The twins.” He blurts, almost regretting it when Thranduil’s eyes narrow. “They’re who I think they are, aren’t they?”

“Oh, you’ve seen them?” Thranduil murmurs in surprise, before he sighs and buries his head in his hands, looking exhausted all of a sudden. “Yes, they’re who you think they are.”

“Did your father know?”

“Of course. I told him as soon as we settled into the Greenwood and were away from all the Noldor, _except_ your darling wife.” Thranduil answers, then he pauses, looking up at Celeborn with an amused smile. “That’s going to be an interesting conversation to have with Bard, since we were hiding the twins from his father, specifically.” He says, as if Celeborn is supposed to understand why that’s amusing, but he doesn’t.

“Bard’s father?”

“Ah, Elrond didn’t get around to telling you?” Thranduil queries, his eyes shining with laughter. “Do you remember Lord Celebrimbor’s human son, Baldr?”

“I do. He passed through Lothlórien to tell us of the fate of Ost-in-Edhil.” Celeborn remarks, remembering the young man who, now that he thinks of it, had been Bard’s replica. “Was he not actually human, then?” Celeborn queries, connecting Thranduil’s reference to hiding the twins from Bard’s father with the fact that a man who so resembles Bard was the son of Celebrimbor.

“He’s human. He has something in common with your dear wife, Elrond, and Gandalf the Harbinger.” Thranduil says, his eyes narrowed as Celeborn startles, his thoughts racing.

“That-that’s impossible. There were only three!”

“He completed a fourth.” Thranduil disagrees, shaking his head. “The ring of earth, but as is so common with Fëanor’s ridiculous bloodline, Celebrimbor tapped into something he didn’t understand. The earth is not just an element of the world, it _is_ the world.”

Celeborn groans and buries his head in his hands, it was bad enough that Sauron had imbued a ring with his power, but now Celebrimbor had imbued a ring with the very power of the Earth herself? He frowns, looking up at Thranduil, his head cocked to the side.

“Is it the spirit of the earth or of Yavannah?”

“The Song.” Thranduil answers, Celeborn balks, his eyes going wide.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Song of Arda.” Thranduil repeats, amusement in his eyes, even as his lips are pulled into a tight line. “I’ve heard it.” He states, before he looks away, towards the Greenwood standing in the distance. “It’s the only reason Greenwood hasn’t fallen, well, that and my girdle, but I’m not strong enough to stand against Sauron on my own and indefinitely. Bard and his… burden have been helping in secret.”

“Why tell me? That information should be protected.”

“It’s simple.” Thranduil answers, climbing to his feet, one hand pressed to his collarbone, rubbing absently as one does to a wound that’s bothering them. Celeborn suddenly realizes that Thranduil wasn’t as unharmed from the battle as everyone has assumed, that perhaps Galion hadn’t simply been trying to fend him off when he said Thranduil needed his rest. “Betray me and I’ll know where we stand.” Thranduil states, before pulling a polite smile to his lips as he inclines his head at Celeborn. “Forgive me, but I have other duties to attend.”

Celeborn watches him turn and walk away from the table, disappearing into the tent with Galion, who has appeared seemingly from nowhere. Celeborn can’t help but replay Thranduil’s words in his mind. Words he’d never thought he’d ever hear Thranduil say to him.


	3. I am a witness to love's death (there's no blood, there's no body, there's nothing left)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and one of his elusive uncle's talk, Tilda and Thranduil have tea, Elrond has a painful epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Lover's Death by Ursine Vulpine & Annaca

Methloth Thranduilion, formerly Elurín Diorion, had been expecting some sort of confrontation since he and his brother decided that, since they were opening Greenwood back up to the world, there was no reason to keep their charade going. Everyone in Greenwood knew them, their former names, their former lives, the glamours they’d worn throughout their childhood, and whenever they left Greenwood’s protection. If their father was going to have to re-enter the world, he wasn’t going to do it alone.

So, when his _nephew_ tracks him down, he doesn’t resist going with him to find somewhere private to talk, Dale is full of destroyed buildings just ripe for the pickings. He wonders if this for Bard, returning to a ruined city where people you knew, people you loved had died, is like what it had been for his ada returning to Menegroth after the dwarves killed his great-grandfather and slaughtered their people. His memories of Menegroth are fleeting, but his ada has never hidden the history from him or his brother. Quietly, he sends a mental nudge to his brother to check on their new father, since it can’t be easy for him, returning to the city where Methloth knows he lost children.

“You’re one of the Eluchil twins, aren’t you?” Elrond queries, looking at him with such intense eyes. Methloth considers that Elrond has lost almost every single member of his family that he’s ever gained. Elwing and Eärendil will be little more than vague recollections to him, the way Nimloth and Dior are only blurred, half-remembered memories for Methloth and his twin. Maedhros isn’t ever coming back to Ennor, and Maglor was still wandering aimlessly along the shores the last time Methloth had heard the word. Celebrimbor was long dead. Gil-Galad the same. Celebrían had taken ship to the West.

Elros… Methloth still struggles to understand how the twins could have chosen such different paths. Methloth and Methestel were two separate entities, yes, but they had not known a single day without the other and Methloth didn’t _want_ to know a single day without his twin. He’s not going to swear any Oath’s about it, but he’s relatively certain that when it comes time for them to Choose, he’ll pick whatever his brother picks.

“I am Ernil Methloth, son of Aran Thranduil and Hîr Galion. A long time ago, I was named Ernil Elurín, son of Aran Dior and Rîs Nimloth, yes.” Methloth answers, kicking a piece of rubble to see if it’s stable, satisfied when it doesn’t move, he sits down on it, looking at Elrond with questioning eyes. “You are Elwing’s son.”

“I am.” Elrond agrees with a nod. “Did she know that you survived?”

“No. Until we moved to the Greenwood with our fathers, they were the only ones who knew we had survived.” Methloth replies, shaking his head. “As far as our sister was aware, we were just the pair of twins her uncles had decided to adopt.”

“Why hide it?” Elrond asks, incredulous, Methloth raises an eyebrow at him.

“I shouldn’t have to explain to the elf who was kidnapped as a child, to be held as ransom, why his uncles’ survival was hidden from the world.” Methloth states, looking at Elrond like he’s of questionable intelligence. Elrond opens his mouth, obviously to argue, but suddenly shuts his mouth with a click, red blooming on his cheeks. “Forgot your auspicious start to life as a Fëanorion, huh?”

“I may have.” Elrond replies, making a face. “Fine, I get why you wouldn’t reveal yourself before the War of Wrath, but afterward?”

“Maglor is still alive, Celebrimbor was still around then, too.” Methloth answers, shrugging his shoulders. “Who is to say Maglor wouldn’t suddenly go mad with grief or rage and come after the bloodline which ultimately ensured the deaths of his family? Three of my parents killed one of his brothers _each,_ and my last parent assisted. The Ambarussa twins were slain in Sirion, where they were pursuing our sister.”

“Maglor wouldn’t-“ Elrond starts, but Methloth just laughs.

“Again, penneth, you forget that the Maglor and Maedhros you got to experience were very different from those that the rest of the world got to experience. I was at Sirion and, unlike you, I was old enough to fight, old enough to be murdered in the streets if I’d been too slow. It was not orcs or corrupted men or even dwarves that we were fighting that day, it was not orcs who were leading them.” Methloth states, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your adoptive fathers and their followers turned me into a Kinslayer. Forgive me for not wanting to invite a repeat of such.”

“Self defense doesn’t- it doesn’t count.” Elrond argues, but Methloth shakes his head.

“Self defense doesn’t matter for some elves who weren’t present at any of the Kinslayings. They only see an elf who has elven blood on their hands and that’s all they care about.” Methloth answers, before shrugging again. “But I don’t care what they call me, I’d just rather not have to fight my own kind when there are enough orcs to go around.”

“True enough.” Elrond agrees, nodding his head. “You hid because of Elros and I, too, didn’t you?”

“Very perceptive.” Methloth praises with a nod. “Yes. We were not certain if you would challenge our grandfather for the leadership of the Sindar and we were not certain of the type of elves you had been raised to be. We resolved to remain hidden unless you made a play for the title of High King of the Sindar, if you tried for it, we were set to reveal ourselves and claim it out from under you.”

“Because we’d been raised by Fëanorions.”

“Yes.” Methloth answers, he briefly considers saying ‘it’s not personal’, as he knows the humans sometimes say, but in this case, it was personal, it was _entirely_ personal. “Nowadays, we’d probably let you claim it. Ada doesn’t want it, Legolas will never claim it, and Methestel and I aren’t even in the line of succession for the Greenwood.”

“No, thanks.” Elrond is quick to say, Methloth laughs before the sound turns bitter.

“Yeah, everyone’s realized that being an elven king isn’t all it’s made out to be.” Methloth mutters, shaking his head. He considers the elf before him and decides they’ve had enough brooding. “Tell me of your children, I’ve only been able to observe them from afar whenever they’ve visited.” He says, watches the way Elrond lights up and knows he’s made the right choice as he settles in to listen to tales of his nephew’s children, his sister’s grandchildren.

* * *

Tilda smiles sweetly at the guards outside of King Thranduil’s tent, they smile at her, their eyes alight in that way she knew meant they were looking at her like she was an adorable commodity and not a living, breathing, thinking being fully capable of manipulation. Tilda grew up in a town whose leader _despised_ her father and had been uncomfortably in love with her mother, she might only be ten, but she knew how to play the game to get what she wanted. So, the elves too busy humouring her to stop her, she slips passed them and into the king’s tent.

She comes to a stop just within the entranceway, her eyes going wide at the sight before her. Lord Galion patiently wrapping bandages around the King’s upper body while the King’s attention was taken up by a parchment held in his hand. Neither of them had noticed her entrance, despite their enhanced hearing and she wonders if that’s her doing, or if it’s just that thing adults do when they let themselves relax too much and stop paying attention to their surroundings. Either way, it means they startle when she speaks.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaims, stating the obvious before she can really help it, but, really, she is still only ten after all. Both elves startle, turning to look at her with wide eyes and mouths open in surprise. The King is the first one to recover, his face softening, the way da’s always does when one of them does something that doesn’t make him pull his hair out.

“I am hurt.” The King agrees, putting the parchment down as Lord Galion resumes wrapping the bandages. “But, the wound is healing well and not something you need to worry over.”

“Does da know?” Tilda asks, hesitantly stepping forward to stand in front of the chair, but not in Lord Galion’s way.

“Your father is aware of my injury, yes.” The King answers, inclining his head. “What brings you by today, princess?” the question makes Tilda pause, they’ve all been careful not to call da ‘king’, because he hasn’t been crowned yet, but she knows some of the adults are already calling him King Bard the Dragonslayer. If her da is king, that makes her a princess, and if her da has married another king, then she’s a princess twice over and that’s… going to be interesting.

“Da said you got married.” Tilda answers and watches the amused smile Lord Galion gives the King, who rolls his eyes back, before turning to address her as he shrugs his arms back into the sleeves of his robe.

“We did get married, yes. Though, not according to human customs, by the laws of my own people, your father and I are wed.” The King agrees, and Tilda should probably find some other way to refer to him in her mind, given he’s her father now, isn’t he? The King seems to hesitate, his eyes becoming uncertain as he appraises her. “Do you mind that your father and I have married?”

“Sigrid says you can’t choose who you love.” Tilda answers, shrugging her shoulders. “Mam’s never going to come back and da deserves to be happy, especially if he has to rule a whole kingdom, now.” She frowns at him, he frowns back, she barely notices as Lord Galion slips out of the tent. “Do I have any new siblings? Da said you had a son? I think I met him before back in Lake Town, but I wasn’t sure.”

“I have three sons.” The King admits, smiling softly. “Methloth, Methestel, and Legolas. It would have been Legolas that you met if he was with Tauriel?” The King queries, Tilda nods her head emphatically. “Yes, that would have been Legolas.”

“He’s really grumpy.” Tilda states, remembering the serious and unhappy frown that Legolas’ face had been pulled into, the King finds something in her words funny, because he chuckles and shakes his head.

“He’s not normally grumpy. He’s recently had to come to terms with revelations he did not wish to face.” The King explains, Tilda rolls her eyes, she knows all about _that._ She hated when things didn’t go her way, either.

“Will your sons be happy having little siblings?”

“Methloth and Methestel are adopted, but they had-“ The King pauses, considers his words and starts again. “-they _have_ a little sister, already. Her name is Elwing. Legolas has never had younger siblings, though he treated Tauriel as such since she became my ward. I think all three of them would enjoy having younger siblings.”

“I have two other older brothers, too, but they’re dead.” Tilda admits, then frowns, as she realizes she wasn’t meant to say that. “You know about da’s past, right?” she asks, watches the gentle smile that forms on the King’s face and relaxes a little.

“Yes, I’m aware of his past. I met your older brothers only once, but I’m sure they would have liked you.” Tilda considers the King’s words, because her da has told her stories about her older brothers for as long as she can remember, but da has to tell her that her brothers would have liked having her as a sister, the King isn’t bound by the same rules. He’s her father now, but he doesn’t _have_ to be nice to her.

“Thank you.” She says, smiling widely at him. “Can we have tea?”

“I’m sure Galion’s gone to prepare some just for you.” The King replies, amused. “He’s very good at anticipating my needs.” He comments as he climbs from the wooden throne and moves across to the table.

“Da needs a Lord Galion.” Tilda states, as she follows him, sitting down in the chair he holds out for her, she smiles when he pushes the chair in, like the gentlemen in the stories Sigrid sometimes tells her.

“I am sure we can find your father a Galion of his own.” The King promises as he sits down across from her, steepling his hands.

“What am I supposed to call you now?” Tilda blurts out, notes the way the King freezes and she wants to take the words back, but that’s impossible, so she just holds her head high and pretends like she meant to ask the question the entire time.

“What do you want to call me?” The King queries, raising an eyebrow, Tilda sniffs and looks away.

“I don’t know. I already have a da.” She answers, fidgeting in her seat, before she frowns, turning back to him with a calculating look. “Grandpa Silver was da’s atar, that means dad, right?”

“Grandpa Silver- oh, I see.” The King answers, with a laugh. “Slightly different term, ‘atar’ is Quenyan for father. ‘Atya’, ‘atto’, ‘ataryo’ also mean father but are used more as the human expression of ‘dad’ or ‘daddy’. Sindarin doesn’t have as many variants, there is ‘adar’ for father, and ‘ada’ or ‘adda’, for ‘dad’ or ‘daddy’.” Tilda considers that, knows from what she’s learned from her father over the years and from listening to the elves the last few days that the King is Sindarin, not Noldorin, which is what her grandfather was. She doesn’t really understand the differences yet but assumes it’s something like how she’s Esgarothi or Daleish while someone from Gondor would be Gondorian. Besides, she’s got time to understand it all, her father had obviously learned it all, once.

“Ada.” She eventually settles on, smiling brightly at her new father when he startles. Before he can say something, Galion returns with a tray topped with a teapot and teacups and she’s immediately distracted. She doesn’t miss the pleased little smile that forms on her ada’s face though.

Mission accomplished; she decides. She doesn’t really know why her father told her that her ada might benefit from a ‘tea party’ with her, but she’s completed her assigned mission and that’s all that really matters.

* * *

“No.” Elrond pauses, frowning at the elf that has suddenly appeared in front of him as he’d intended to go and beg an audience with Thranduil.

“Galion-“

“He is spending time with his new daughter. You may speak to him later.” Galion states, arms crossed over his chest and the look on his face makes it clear he expects to be obeyed. It’s not often that Elrond is forcibly reminded that Galion has been Thranduil’s keeper and protector since even before Doriath’s fall.

“His new daughter?” Elrond asks, instead of the millions of other things he may wish to.

“Bard has three children, as you know.” Galion answers, before frowning at him. “Elrond, you must know that he does not forgive you.”

“I know!” Elrond replies, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ache from it. “I made mistakes that I need to apologize for, but he doesn’t have to forgive me.”

“As long as you understand that.” Galion replies, indicating for Elrond to turn away, so, with a sigh, Elrond complies, Galion falling into step beside him as they walk away from Thranduil’s command tent. “You aren’t the only one who made mistakes, but-” Galion grimaces and Elrond frowns at him in concern, “- I don’t think he cares any longer whether you forgive him or not.”

“Oh.” Elrond murmurs, unable to truly fathom the intense array of emotions that rises in him at the idea that Thranduil no longer cares one way or the other, but he supposes it makes sense. Thranduil had been the first one to extend an olive branch between them, back when Elrond and Elros were still treated with such scorn and suspicion purely because of the elves who had raised them. Thranduil was the first one who took the time, with much grumbling at first, to look past the elves who raised them and just see him and Elros for who they were, not who they represented. Then, intentionally or not, Elrond repaid that trust by abandoning Thranduil when he had needed support, had needed friends the most.

_“Your father is dead through his own foolishness, Thranduil!”_

_“We thought the signal had been given! Amd_ _ír was just as convinced as we were that the signal was given! We cannot all have been wrong!”_

 _“The signal wasn’t given, so clearly you were! You cannot blame us for this! Your father made a reckless, stupid mistake that got him and so many of your people killed. That’s_ his _fault, his and_ yours! _Not mine, not Gil-Galad’s. We did not give the signal!”_

_“No one is blaming you for this!”_

_“Good!”_

_“I am merely saying that something must have been done, some trick, or sabotage that caused us to believe the signal had been given.”_

_“Thranduil, you of all people should know that when you make a mistake, you should own up to it, even if you do not want to. Stop trying to place blame elsewhere. You know exactly why your father is not here with us now, and you know exactly who to blame for this.”_

_“…you know, Elrond. One day, the people you love are going to be little more than memories for you, worse, some of them will have been gone for so long you can’t remember their faces, the sound of their voices, the touch of their skin. You’ll still remember the smell of their favourite perfume, the taste of their favourite wine, the sound of their favourite song, but you won’t quite remember_ them. _When that day comes, I hope you’ll remember this moment, and you’ll know exactly why those people aren’t with you anymore, and you’ll know exactly who to blame for it… Until then, Galion, your king is tired. Please escort our guest away, he no longer presents anything of value to me.”_

The worst part of the whole thing is that Thranduil had been right, of course. There had been trickery. Even to this day, every single one of the elves from Eryn Galen and Lothlórien who had fought in the Last Alliance swore the signal had been given, even Lord Celeborn. They could not all have been wrong. A signal was given, it just hadn’t been _the_ signal. Elrond hadn’t wanted to listen. Hadn’t wanted to entertain the idea that there could have been something, _anything_ they could have done to prevent the massacre that had occurred.

Thranduil hadn’t been wrong about the memories, either. Elrond had come to learn over the years that they had been friends, and even in the years where they were even less than acquaintances, that Thranduil was rarely wrong about anything. Sometimes, Thranduil didn’t know why he knew things, he just knew them. Sometimes, he’d seen things, the way Elrond sometimes did. Elrond, on the other hand, didn’t know why he never bothered to listen. Thranduil had given him the benefit of the doubt and, in return, he’d given Thranduil even less than that.

_“When the day comes and you look around you and you ask where the peace went, where the paradise has gone, when you ask why you can no longer find the golden years that should come after vanquishing the dark. I want you to remember who it was that allowed Isildur to walk away with a trinket he never should have been allowed to claim, because then you’ll understand where the peace went and why it did not linger.”_

_“Thranduil-“_

_“Hail and farewell, Nosdagnirrion. May you live long and prosperously.”_

“Elrond?” he jolts, blinking to look into Galion’s concerned face, such he hasn’t seen in… nearly three thousand years.

“I’m alright.” He promises, even though he feels tongue-tied, his eyes burning. “I’m just… realizing I truly have made mistakes, haven’t I?” he asks, the question tapering off into a choked sob. “I messed up.” He’s horrified when he can’t stop the tears that fall, the gasped sobs that follow them. “Eru, I messed up.”

“Come.” Galion murmurs, his hand around Elrond’s wrist, pulling him along swiftly down a destroyed alleyway and into a ruined home, out of the sight of prying eyes. Then Galion's hauling him into a crushing hug and Elrond can’t help but collapse into it.

He’d never had an elder sibling before, for all that he and Elros never remembered who was elder it wouldn’t have counted anyway, but Thranduil and Galion had performed that function for him, when they’d been friends. Their loss had been especially hard in the wake of Gil-Galad’s death, but grief is grief and after a point, it doesn’t really matter how much more gets piled on, it’s still just grief. He’s tried to convince himself Gil-Galad was all he was mourning; he’d succeed for a long time.

Elrond hasn’t cried. Not since the moment that he _felt_ Elros die, he’d been inconsolable for weeks after that. But, when Gil-Galad had died, he’d been too busy picking up the pieces of their army to mourn. Then he’d been too busy feeling numb and disjointed and lost without Thranduil or Galion to prop him up when he floundered. Sure, Maedhros and Maglor had taught him and Elros everything they could need to know to lead, but that hadn’t covered what to do when your King died along with nearly every single other ruler that made up the allied army. The teaching didn’t advise what to do when you felt like someone was squeezing your heart too tightly and they wouldn’t let go. It didn’t cover how you were supposed to push through that and lead anyway. It had taken him a while, but he’d figured it out.

Then Celebrían had been gone, and he’d gotten a glimpse of Thranduil at the Havens. But Thranduil hadn’t stayed, he’d been there for Celebrían, to say goodbye to the cousin he’d treated like his little sister, and then once she was gone far enough she couldn’t come back, Thranduil had left, too. Arwen had left for Lothlórien, the twins went mad with bloodlust and barely remembered to return home to him, and he was alone. Glorfindel and Erestor tried, but he was mourning something they couldn’t give him. All three of the brothers he’d claimed were gone.

Still, he hadn’t cried. Not through lack of trying, really, he thinks he probably just forgot how. Like the way Celebrían had forgotten how to smile, even when she’d tried the expression came out all wrong. He’d forgotten how to cry, but it didn’t mean his sorrow had gone away. It’d just built up and up and up and he hadn’t bothered to notice because he reached his limit a long, long time ago and it was all just grief, in the end.

 _“The straw that broke the pony’s back!”_ Estel’s beloved voice chimes in his head, a new phrase he’d learned from one of the Rangers during their visits. _“Ponies can carry lots and lots and straws are really light, but even a pony can’t carry all the straw in the world! Eventually, the pony collapses under the weight!”_

That’s what this is, Elrond realizes as he leans into Galion, his whole body shaking with cries that he cannot stop, cannot control as Galion holds him tight and murmurs soothing nonsense at him. He has been piling his grief on top of itself for near three thousand years and he’s finally found the final straw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to note:  
> Nosdagnirrion = Kinslayer's son (the backstory for which is missing from this fic, but I headcanon Elros and Elrond weren't exactly accepted with open arms when they showed up in Gil-Galad's court...)


	4. the seed that in the sun's love (in the spring becomes the rose)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Rose by ... various different artists but my favourite version is by Sol3 Mio.

Bard had given them all a day free of their alliance talks about ten minutes in. This was done by virtue of announcing he had more important things to deal with that day than listening to a bunch of nobles argue over milk that had yet to be spilled, whatever that meant, and that they were all to get the hell out of his throne room. So, Thranduil suddenly found himself free of his most pressing duties for the day, and utterly clueless as to whatever ‘important things’ Bard was getting up to, as his husband hadn’t even told him what his plans were for the day.

This is, of course, how he finds himself sitting down beside Elrond after the lunch bell, both of them exhausted from lending their skills to the healing tents. Galion had fussed at the both of them, all but forcing them into chairs and pressing plates of food and goblets of wine or juice or water into their hands at various points. Clearly, Thranduil had realized, Galion and Elrond were no longer at odds, though he doesn’t think they ever truly were. He and Elrond fought, Galion took Thranduil’s side, as he ever had and so Elrond was essentially left out in the cold. There was a time he’d felt guilty of their parting, but all he’s ever done since Doriath is let people go and, in the end, letting Elrond go had been no different.

“You were right and I’m sorry.” Thranduil’s head comes up swiftly, his eyes locking on Elrond’s grey ones as he tries to determine Elrond’s sincerity from his body language and the tone of his voice alone. “You were right about the signal, about there having been some trickery. You were right about letting Isildur walk away. You were right about Sauron being in Dol Guldur. You were right about all of it, I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Thranduil wants to laugh at the sound of the words he’d, at one point, craved so desperately to hear spoken, but now, they fall upon him like so much white noise. He’s just tired. Tired of all the fighting and tired of the long years of isolation, and the knowledge that no matter how hard he fights, it’ll never be enough to end the war. Still, he inclines his head, acceptance of the words even if he no longer can recognize their worth.

“I’m sorry if anything I said hurt you.” He admits because there has been more than enough suffering going around. Even when he’d been snapping back at Elrond all those thousands of years ago, there had been enough pain to go around without either of them piling more on. He’s not sorry he said the words, he won’t apologise for them. Elrond hurt him, destroyed his trust, disparaged his late father, blamed Thranduil for the deaths of hundreds, _including his father,_ so, no. Thranduil doesn’t feel sorry for anything he might have said in response. But, he is sorry if any of it managed to hurt Elrond, even if that had been his intention when he spoke the words.

“I know you don’t forgive easily.” Elrond says a tremor in his voice. “Can we-“ he pauses, shaking his head with a sigh. “There’s this thing humans do sometimes when they fight, and they don’t know how to fix it.”

“Right?”

“The Rangers have various names for it, but the two I’ve heard most are ‘redo’ and ‘start over’,” Elrond explains, quietly setting his plate and goblet aside with quivering hands. Elrond had always had difficulty in letting things go, Thranduil isn’t surprised that the half-elf is far more invested in this than he is. He misses Elrond, he does, but there are only a handful of people on this earth it would destroy him to lose, a handful that he will cling to as tightly as he can. Elrond was once one of those people, but he chose to walk away, to leave Thranduil behind in the dust. Thranduil has never been stupid enough to invest his everything in someone over and over and over again automatically and easily after they’ve already broken him to pieces, before.

“So, how do we do this, then?” Thranduil queries, frowning at Elrond, who hesitates before holding out his hand, the way humans do for greetings. Thranduil raises an eyebrow but gamely reaches out and takes Elrond’s hand.

“Hello, I’m Elrond Peredhel, I’ve heard a lot of you.” Elrond states, shaking Thranduil’s hand, before letting it go. Thranduil laughs as he suddenly realizes exactly why the humans call this a ‘redo’ or ‘starting over’. He supposes it is fitting, he and Elrond haven’t known each other for three thousand years, they’ve both gained and they’ve both lost and who they are now is in no way who they had been when their friendship had crumbled into dust on the Dagorlad.

“I am Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, I’ve heard much of you, also.” He replies, the amusement bubbling within him. “So, Master Elrond, is it true the dwarves once bathed in the fountain in Imladris?” he asks, a question he’s had since he received Glorfindel’s letter in advance of the Company. Elrond laughs, his eyes alight with joy as he launches into the tale, which apparently also included Glorfindel diving into the fountain also, which the blond-haired elf had neglected to include in his correspondence.

Despite the hurt that still lingers between them, talking with Elrond is as easy as it has ever been. Perhaps there is some hope to rebuild their friendship from the ashes, after all.

* * *

Their day free of negotiations had been nice, truthfully. Celeborn had spent the day teasing Haldir along with his brothers since it appeared his marchwarden had finally found that which could turn his eye. Of all of his children, adopted, fostered, or otherwise, Haldir was the one he least expected to find a partner, outside of Galion, of course.

Rúmil had lost his spouse in the fall of Ost-in-Edhil, where Rúmil himself had almost been lost. Orophin tended to show up with a different partner every few hundred years, amicably having parted with the last before they began anything resembling negotiations for marriage. Celebrían, Lúthien, and Nimloth had all met their future spouses a total of once before announcing they’d found their chosen. Celeborn, unlike Thingol and Galathil, had taken the girls' insistences without judgment, even if he had questioned their respective husbands’ worthiness. It was ironic that of all of them, Beren was the only one who was not already another member of his family. No, their family tree is not easy to read and it never seems to get easier, either.

Haldir and Galion had never shown any inclination towards finding spouses, even as one or the other of them had trailed about after Thranduil in his pursuit to meet every single eligible ellon or elleth Middle-earth had to offer. Thranduil had never admitted exactly what it was about Lindariel that drew him in, but she had, and that had been all that had mattered.

Still, that had left three of his charges unattached and he’d simply assumed they would remain such, but now, Haldir appears utterly flustered and incapable of focussing, his thoughts frequently drifting off to the mysterious person that Haldir all but refuses to tell them of. They know they exist given the way Haldir blushes so brightly when asked what he’s been up to while Celeborn has been busy.

So, yes, it had been an interesting day, and unlike the other rulers here, his realm was not destroyed, was not recovering from a battle, and was not attempting to supplement two other - destroyed - realms in addition to itself, so he hadn’t had any pressing matters to deal with. He knows already that wasn’t the case for the others, though it seems none of them had been able to determine what important business Bard had needed to tend to, whatever it was, he’d been in no mood to put it off. Clearly, though, it’s resolved, since Bard has sat himself at the negotiation table with a pleasant smile on his face and looking like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Celebrimbor’s boy, for now that he knows of Celebrimbor’s influence in raising the human king, he can see it in the way the man holds himself, can see it in the calculated expression he occasionally gets on his face when he’s plotting. He can see it most clearly though; in the way that he steps fearlessly into a battle of wits with the dwarves. He hasn’t seen anyone negotiate so successfully with dwarves since Celebrimbor himself, so he well can believe that this man is the only child Celebrimbor would get to raise in Middle-earth.

Given Bard’s propensity for wheedling the dwarves down from agreements that are, frankly, untenable to something actually reasonable, Celeborn cannot understand how the human lets the dwarves muttered insults flow off of him like so much water. Thranduil, too. Perhaps after the days they spent dealing with it before Celeborn arrived, they’re just done with fighting back over it, but Celeborn isn’t and he’s never been one to sit idly by while those he loves were insulted.

Which is how he finds himself glaring across the table at a set of dwarves, younger than his own grandchildren, who feel the need to grumble and grouse and complain about his and Thranduil’s presence near every few minutes. Thorin’s muttered comment about not seeing the point in these negotiations when they ‘can’t expect the faithless woodland fairy to honour his word in the first place’, Thranduil truthfully has the patience of a saint, but Celeborn has never indulged in such.

“You know, Aran Naug, the humans have a saying ‘beware not to bite the hand that feeds’,” Celeborn states, the group becoming very still. Thranduil frowns at him, purses his lips but doesn’t comment either at Celeborn or to the dwarves, Bard simply sighs, while the dwarves glare back at him. “It’s my understanding the Naugrim from the Iron Hills did not bring enough provisions to do more than preserve them through whatever battle may have befallen them here?” he queries, watches as Dain sneers at him but jerks his head in agreement. “Right, so Aran Thranduil is currently responsible for feeding not only his own people but yours and all the people of Dale as well? Yet, you sit here and question his inclusion in negotiations?”

“Do not worry yourself over it, Lord Celeborn,” Thranduil states, his voice airy, unconcerned, if anything, he sounds _bored_. “I am used to such from the Naugrim. They take with both hands and refuse to ever give anything back; this is simply their nature.”

“Why you-“

“Also,” Celeborn states, cutting over whatever King Thorin was going to snarl in response. “perhaps those who currently do not even own the mountain they proclaim to be king of or the treasure they declared a right over should not speak of cutting people out of the negotiation.” He smirks when he sees the confused expressions on Dain and Thorin’s faces before its hidden by anger. “In order to free Erebor and its treasure, you set the dragon within loose upon Lake Town, which was destroyed entirely. The dragon was then slain. As per the Undisputed Laws of the Land which have stood since before the Last Alliance, the horde of a dragon slain shall go, in full and without question, to the slayer. That would be King Bard, and the horde consisted of Erebor and everything held within.”

“I was not planning to use that claim,” Bard admits, frowning at him. “given that enough blood has already been spilled over that mountain, the dwarves can have it for all I care. But I do not relinquish any claim over the treasures within and I still carry the greatest treasure from within, which I intend to retain until our negotiations here conclude.”

“The Arkenstone is mine by birthright!” Thorin snarls, but Bard just hums.

“It _was_ yours by birthright, my right as Dragonslayer supersedes your claim, as you are well aware.” Bard argues glaring at him. “You already narrowly averted a war over it, and even that wasn’t through your own actions. If you wish to cease our negotiations, that’s fine. I will simply claim the treasure of the mountain out from beneath you, how long will it take you to starve with an entire mountain full of treasure that you cannot _eat?_ ”

“Oddly enough, if you wanted to claim the dragon’s horde, you should have slain the dragon,” Celeborn says, his voice dripping with his amusement. “You are currently negotiating with someone else’s treasure and complaining about having to negotiate with the person who is currently keeping you and yours fed. Reconsider your worth in these discussions, humble yourself, and we’ll all be free of each other soon enough.”

“Yes, please eat the humble pie so we can actually make some progress today. I wasn’t jesting yesterday, and I’m sure we all have things we’d rather be doing than spending the time arguing in each other’s company.” Bard agrees, frowning at the dwarves, before he says something to them in Khuzdul, that has the dwarves snarling but ultimately settling back in their chairs.

Celeborn resists the urge to sigh as their negotiations pick up once again.


	5. (O-o-h child) things are gonna get brighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Thranduil reconcile, Celeborn and Thranduil also reconcile, Bard and Elrond talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from O-o-h Child by the Five Stairsteps.

“You did not have to defend me.” Thranduil states, once the dwarves have stomped off for the day and Bard has disappeared to tend to his children, leaving them alone in each other’s company. “What does it matter what Naugrim have to say?”

“I know that you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself, I also know why you won’t, and I know how their words will hurt you, even if you will not admit it.” Celeborn answers, ignoring Thranduil’s scoff. “We may have become estranged, but that does not mean I have forgotten how large your heart is.”

“My ward would tell you otherwise.” Thranduil answers, his voice amused but the emotion in his eyes is just _pain._ Abruptly, Thranduil groans and rubs at his face. “Galion?”

“Mellon nin?” Galion queries, suddenly appearing at Thranduil’s side, seemingly from nowhere, but that had been a skill Galion perfected thousands of years ago.

“Where is the foolish child?”

“She has been keeping Prince Kíli company. She has not left the dwarven camp since the battle ended.” Galion admits, his tone detached. “She would not be welcome back within our camp.”

“No. No, she would not.” Thranduil agrees, Celeborn frowns between them both, not knowing who they’re talking of or what. “See that she’s informed her banishment stands; she remains barred from the Greenwood.”

“What of Legolas?”

“He thought he was preventing a Kinslaying; he and I will have words, but his duties are far more important than either of our hurt feelings.”

“Kinslaying?” Celeborn queries, startling the both of them, Thranduil glances at him with uncertainty, while Galion’s expression has become hard.

“The King’s ward raised her weapon against the King and was surprised when he retaliated rather than cower in fear.” Galion murmurs, before turning back to Thranduil. “I will see the message sent.”

“Hannon le, Galion.” Thranduil answers, without taking his gaze from Celeborn, who can see the challenge in his eyes.

“What wrong did she presume you’d made against her?” Celeborn queries, frowning at the very thought of there being a fourth Kinslaying, and that Thranduil would be involved in it, yet again. Isn't twice enough? For any of them? Wasn't _once_ enough? Wasn't once one time too many?

“I called a retreat rather than giving her troops to use to save her dwarven lover.” Thranduil states, his voice matter of fact as he shrugs his shoulders. “She decided that was an offense worthy of treason.” Celeborn doesn’t really know what’s showing on his face, but whatever it is, it makes Thranduil laugh. “I don’t think she paid much attention to her history lessons or she would have known that threatening me with death would only have resulted in her own, and it would have, if Legolas hadn’t interfered. Of course, I don’t think _he_ paid much attention to his history lessons, either.”

“Well, you never did.” Celeborn answers teasingly, trying to lift the mood before they both sink into memories that are best left, far, far in the past, never to be touched _ever_. “And you ensured Celebrían didn’t pay attention to them, either.”

“Oh, you can’t blame that on me. I always asked her permission, first!” Thranduil defends, his eyes no longer looking so haunted, even though the expression does linger. “Besides, Elrond made up for all the history lessons we all missed or ignored.”

“Truthfully, I think Elros was the one who made up for it and Elrond only picked up the slack to honour him.”

“I could believe that.” Thranduil agrees, with a small nod. “He’s far too sentimental.” Thranduil hums in thought before he turns to Celeborn with a mischievous spark in his eyes, Celeborn narrows his eyes, bracing himself for whatever game Thranduil wants to play. “I heard we _may_ become in-laws together, soon?” Celeborn splutters, sitting up straight in his shock.

“What?”

“Haldir has not told you?” Thranduil queries, cocking his head to the side, his eyes alight and his smile wide, Celeborn shakes his head.

“Legolas?” he queries, but Thranduil chokes on air in response, doubling over in laughter. “One of your twins, then?” he asks instead, but Thranduil snorts and shakes his head.

“Princess Sigrid has managed to catch Haldir’s eye and, by all accounts, the attention is returned.” Thranduil admits, Celeborn feels his eyes widen, but his words fail him. “I’ve assured Bard of Haldir’s worth, of course, but it remains to be seen if the boy has the courage to date the daughter of _two_ Dragonslayers. That being said, neither of Bard’s daughters will allow others to decide their fate, if Haldir plays his cards right, Sigrid would forsake all others for him.”

“We know how well that ends. I won’t interfere if this is truly what Haldir wants, but… I wish he hadn’t fallen for a _mortal._ ” Celeborn finally says, rubbing at his eyes as he remembers how well things went when Thingol attempted to prevent Lúthien and Beren’s union.

“Alas, our children often do not do what we would wish of them.”

“Isn’t that an understatement.” Celeborn mutters, sharing a commiserating smile with Thranduil. “Do you think, if they marry, that I will need to find a new marchwarden?” Thranduil finds the question amusing, even as he shakes his head.

“No, I imagine, once she learns to fight, she would join him on his patrols.”

“Can I justify placing a Princess, from two different realms that _aren’t_ my own, on the front line of our defense?” Celeborn queries, tone neutral even though he’s screaming internally. That’s just asking for a diplomatic nightmare.

“Mhm, you know Haldir becomes a Prince of our two realms, also?” Celeborn groans at the gentle comment from Thranduil and buries his head in his hands.

“How come _you_ get married and it becomes a political nightmare for _me?”_ he whines, feeling only slightly mollified when he hears Thranduil’s genuinely delighted laughter, a sound he hasn’t had cause to hear in thousands of years.

“I’m just very good at causing diplomatic incidents that harm me not at all.” Is Thranduil’s unhelpful retort. “Besides, we don’t even know if they’re going to marry.”

* * *

“So-“ Bard says, pausing for just a moment when the elf across from him leaps into the air with an exclamation of surprise, Bard clears his throat rather than laugh. “-one ring-bearer to another, what were you lot getting up to in Greenwood before the battle?” he asks, continuing on as if nothing had happened.

“You did that on purpose!” Elrond snaps at him, his hand pressed over his heart, as he visibly tries to calm his breathing, Bard simply grins in response.

“Kémya enjoys a good prank now and again.” He says, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Gandalf got himself taken captive, we went and broke him out and had a confrontation with… the Ringmaker.” Elrond answers, glaring at him. “I would hate to learn I inherited the human ability to have a heart attack.”

“If it was going to happen to you, it would have happened by now.” Bard promises, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’m immune, so I assume you would be, too.” He admits, before he pauses, his eyes narrowing as he considers that. “Huh.”

“Copper coin for your thoughts?”

“Just realizing that none of my children have ever gotten ill. Not even the illnesses prone to infants. I stopped falling sick after my father gave me Kémya.” He admits, his voice is contemplative as he thinks over the possible meanings. “That’s going to be interesting to see the fallout. Anyway-“ he says, shaking his head. “-so, you had a showdown with the Deceiver. How did that work out for you all?”

“We all survived if that is what you are asking?” Elrond queries, something considering in his eyes, Bard hums.

“Right, and until he revealed himself, you were all _definitely_ under the impression that he was someone else?” Bard asks, raising an eyebrow. “You know, that sounds familiar to me and I really can’t believe that we let the fucking bastard get away with doing that sort of shit again! Did no one learn anything, anything at all, from my father and his entire goddamn ancestral House?!” the stricken look on Elrond’s face is really all the answer he needs, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We are called the Council of the Wise but that does not mean we see or acknowledge everything.”

“Clearly.” Bard agrees, with a dejected nod of his head. “Ah well, there’ll be a reckoning at some point, there always is.”

“We have bought his evil into the light; he can no longer hide.”

“I doubt he’ll be as hindered as you’re assuming. Did not his Master operate without guise and still he claimed all of Beleriand before he was defeated?” Bard queries, gripping Kémya tightly. “She’s not happy about that, either. I think if the entire land of Mordor sinks beneath the ocean or leaves a giant crater, she might well just set off all of her volcanos to rebuild everything in a cleansing fire.”

“Wonderful,” Elrond mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead. “that’s just exactly what we need, assuming we defeat the Deceiver, of course.”

“Well, let us see what the future brings, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to write more for this one, but the characters just weren't having it, so... Currently, I'm working on the next fic in this series, which takes place set in LotR. (I'm also working on like three-five other wips too because my brain is a fucking menace!)


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